


Wanna Run My Mouth Over Your Wounds

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: (sorta not really but kinda in context? IDK), Alcohol, Drag Queens, Halloween Costumes, M/M, female impersonation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: Blaine wants to go as Hedwig to their Halloween party. He enlists Santana's help, and it's a roaring success. It does confuse Sam somewhat, though...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over on my tumblr: Blaine goes as Hedwig for Halloween, and Sam's /really/ into it.

Blaine has his chin resting on the heel of his hand, staring so intently at his laptop screen that there’s a furrow between his brows that’s threatening to crease his skin permanently. 

“That thought almost looks worth a whole dime,” Santana says, and Blaine startles and looks up, closing his laptop lid as he does so.

“Not really,” he says. Santana arches a perfect eyebrow and then lifts her mirror again, smoothes her brow with her ring finger and turns her head from side to side. Blaine chews his lip and watches her apply blusher and lipstick and highlighter and says, “I think I’ve figured out what to do for Halloween?”

Santana lays her kabuki brush on the table and lowers the mirror again, stares at him until he shifts awkwardly in his seat.

“Yeah?” she says when he’s not forthcoming. “Is this going to be some obscure reference I’ll have to go google in the bathroom so I can pretend I get you?”

“No,” he says, and opens his laptop again, turning the screen to face her. It’s still open on a picture of his reference. Neil Patrick Harris in one of his promotional pictures for Hedwig and the Angry Inch, when he opened in it on Broadway. He knows Santana is aware of it, because she’d mentioned that he could almost be the twin of Bryan Ryan. (‘You know,’ she said, ‘The guy who nearly shut down the Glee - oh. Well anyway, prep school. They look very alike.’)

She’s silent for a long moment, and Blaine stares at the back of his laptop, his cheeks growing pinker and pinker that longer the silence stretches. And then she nods and grins and taps her fingers against her lips.

“We’ll need to practice your makeup,” she says. “I’m not sure I can do the eyebrows without practice. Like, not just getting rid of yours but drawing those.” 

Blaine exhales a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I kinda have the boots,” he says, and Santana grins.

“Wanky,” she replies.

 

They run through the makeup several times, and each time, Santana takes a step back and presses her lips into a flat line and shakes her head. 

“Not quite,” she says, and spins him around to see his face. Blaine tilts his chin up and then to the side. He touches the place where his eyebrows were and grins, meeting her eyes in the mirror. 

“You’re amazing,” he says, and she shrugs a shoulder and nods her head.

“Yeah, I am,” she agrees. “But those eyebrows are not. And I don’t like the angle on your contours. We can do better than this.”

The makeup comes off. Santana sits down with YouTube for an hour. She comes back with the soundtrack on her phone and a renewed determination to get it right. The blues and pinks at least. The glitter will require a shopping trip. (Life is, she determines, hard. At least it’s Blaine’s money they’re spending. She knows he’s going to look great.)

She finds a denim cut offs and vest that she knows will fit Blaine in a goodwill store. She sets Brittany to task creating bracelets for him, and patches to be stitched on. Blaine buys his own booty shorts and fishnets, and tries them on in the relative sanctity of his own home. Santana puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles.

“I’d let those thighs impregnate me,” she says, and Blaine looks down at his legs.

“I don’t think you understand how impregnation works,” he says.

“I’m willing to learn. Hold still.” 

Blaine laughs, and Santana gets out the glitter and the lipgloss, and when Blaine opens his eyes again, when she lets him look at his face in the mirror, there’s no denying that Hedwig Robinson is staring back at him. His breath catches in his throat, and tears well in his eyes, and Santana grabs for a tissue.

“Don’t you dare,” she says. “This shit will run straight off of your face.”

Blaine sniffs and dabs at his eyes, and smiles.

“You’re amazing.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Do you have a bra?” 

Blaine freezes and meets her eyes in the mirror. 

“Do I need a bra?” 

Santana rolls her eyes and pats his head. “We’ll look tomorrow,” she says. “And then you’re going to owe me for the rest of the year.”

 

It’s worth it, though, for the way heads turns when they walk into the party. Blaine feels like he’s on top of the world. He’s got six inch gold boots on his feet and his balls tucked up inside his body and his hair is more fake than his tits, but he feels like the prettiest thing in the room. Santana enters beside him, scans the room, and then points towards the bar.

“Sam’s here,” she says, and Blaine follows her finger. His palms smooth the front of his denim, making sure the ‘Yankees Go Home’ panel is attached. He breathes out slowly. He’s not nervous, not really. He thinks he looks great. His ass looks good, people are looking at him, he’s on fire. 

Sam’s looking at him. Sam’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before, and Blaine remembers for a world distorting second that time when he crashed out of NYADA and back into Lima, when he’d been trying out new looks, trying to find himself in the haze of distortion and depression that soaked up all of his energy then; he’d run into Sam at the Lima Bean, dressed down and with his hair loose, and Sam had mistaken him for a drug dealer. Sam doesn’t really have great facial recognition, and Blaine’s face very deliberately doesn’t look like his face right now.

Sam’s looking at him like he’d press his face between his legs and eat him whole. Blaine’s trapped dick remembers being 18, and how very much he’d have been into that then.

Cerebrally, emotionally, _physically,_ he’d be into that now, if he’s completely honest. The air punches out of him, and he reaches for Santana, grips her hand in his. Her hands are so small, he thinks. Focus on that.

“Jesus,” she says. Blaine’s knees lock. “Are you going to get over this, ever?” 

Blaine shakes his head, and then rethinks. Maybe. Maybe he’d get over if if there was even the remotest chance of feeling that mouth on his skin. Santana’s snort of laughter yanks his head to face her, and she meets his gaze solemnly.

“Well, lover boy,” she says. “Someone’s heading this way, and he really looks like he wants to nail ya.” 

 

Sam buys him a drink, and then another one. Blaine thinks that at some point, Sam has got to realise that he’s not a woman and that he is his best friend. It’s Sam, so the first part doesn’t worry him as much as it might in other circumstances. At least the boy throwing himself at him is familiar. He sips his drink through a straw, and makes his excuses when he feels his phone buzz against his breastbone, nestled in the empty cup of his bra as it is.

From the relative sanctity of the bathroom, he sees that the text is from Sam. He forwards it to Santana.

_Help?!_

She just texts back a string of emoji faces, laughing so hard she’s crying. 

_Nailed._

She’s no help at all.

Sam’s text says that there’s this woman, and she’s perfect. Small and athletic, with the hottest shoulders he’s seen in so long, and he’d really, _really_ like to know what it’s like to have thighs like hers wrapped around him.

Blaine groans and rests his forehead against the wall. His body is in no position to respond to that, but it takes up a good portion of his brain all the same. He doesn’t reply, only pushes open the door and heads back to the bar and Sam, who smiles wide and open and utterly without recognition. Blaine thinks he should tell him, and he will. Soon. One more drink. Sam will laugh, and they’ll go home.

Sam’s hand is on his leg when he sits back down though, inching up towards his hem, and Blaine covers it with his own quickly.

“Sam,” he hisses, drops the voice and the accent. “Sam, it’s me. Stop.”

Sam’s hand stops, but it doesn’t withdraw, and he blinks and squints.

“Who?” he asks dumbly, and Blaine rolls his eyes, forces Sam’s hand off of his skin.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “Time to call a cab.” 

The cab takes no time at all, really, and still feels like entirely too long. Sam has another drink, and text Blaine again from the bathroom when he disappears to pee. 

_Think I’m going home with her_. 

Blaine rests his head on his arms and grips his phone with strong glittery fingers. At least he can remove the wig when they get back to the apartment. He can plead too drunk to consent for that long, keep Sam’s hands from doing something they’ll regret… 

 

He starts unpinning the wig in the elevator. Sam watches with tipsy fascination, but it’s not until Blaine removes it once they’re home that recognition really dawns. He frowns slightly, and Blaine screws his eyes shut.

“Blaine?” he says, and Blaine nods.

“I tried to say,” he says in a rush, and Sam nods slightly, runs a hand through his hair and scratches his head. Blaine feels when he steps into his space, and he’s not sure what he’s waiting for except that he knows it won’t hurt him. He swallows, and Sam’s hands run up his arms instead, soft and tentative, his fingertips calloused but his touch gentle.

“I kinda still want to kiss you,” he says, and Blaine’s eyes open because that really wasn’t what he was expecting and yet - 

“Yeah,” he says, pressing his lips together. He knows most of his lipstick is gone, but if there’s even a chance he could get glitter on Sam’s golden skin, he’ll take it. “Yeah, okay.”


End file.
